


Error 404

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, Slow Burn, really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:35:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When George goes missing, all Dream is left with is his grief and the knowledge that he might never hear George's voice again. Dream quickly becomes obsessed with George's disappearance, and convinced he can find him, sets off to do so.Along the way he not only discovers things about George, but about himself as well.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44
Collections: anonymous





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Sunday Night: 14th December: 2020

It doesn’t snow in Florida, but shit could it get cold. The damp air soaks through his jeans and hoodie settling as an icy numbness into his bones. It was late but the time didn’t matter, there wasn’t much sleep to be had anyway.

He was unsure where he was going, instead he just let the filthy green street lamps guide him. Lost is what he was. Lost in thought and at a loss for words. There was so much nothing rolling around inside of him at this moment that he had drowned in it.

The days events suspend themselves in disbelief, high like thunderclouds. Still, like the air before a down pour.

His feet stopped in front of a dilapidated old playground. Vaguely, in the back of his mind he recognizes it. Maybe it’s the nostalgia or the severe tiredness that suddenly washes over him that causes him to shuffle forward and sit on one of the frozen metal steps.

He had ended the call with Sapnap about an hour earlier and judging by the silent messages that kept lighting up his screen, Dream had worried the shit out of him. Doesn’t matter though. Dream wasn’t the one Sapnap needed to be worried about. No. He wouldn’t be ok, sure, but the energy shouldn’t be on Dream. It should be on George.

More specifically the lack of George.

It had been a week till they actually heard anything, and then it wasn’t even from George. It was from George’s mom.

It wasn’t uncommon for Dream and Sapnap to talk to the woman. She was absolutely lovely. Always complimenting them and asking when they were going to come visit her.

In the dark Dream felt a small lift in his lips thinking about her. Then they fell again at the thought of what the woman had been the bearer of this evening.

It had been a week. A full, agonizing week, of abrupt and utter nothingness from George. No text, no calls, he wasn’t even online. At first Dream had been angry. George was ignoring him. Ignoring his fans and essentially his career. It had been such a hassle to deal with the fans, to try and come up with an excuse while still being honest. To try and not have them freak out.

Around day three Dream stopped being angry. What replaced his red hot irritation, was something stinging that sucked all the air out of his lungs. He wished he could say he hadn’t cried when he thought about it. Because he thought about it too much. He didn’t sleep, he would constantly hit refresh on his messages. On his Twitch. On his Discord. Just trying to see if George would pop online, even if it was just for a second. Sap was better, but not by much. He’d pretty much gone dark, no streams, no post, he’d only talk to Dream when Dream would call him. Sap would talk Dream down, help him slowly fill his lungs again and smooth the quickly growing cracks forming in Dream. He loved Sap, so much, he really did- but George was his best friend. He had something with George that went beyond anything that could be built by years of knowing a person. They were puzzle pieces that fell together effortlessly, completing the picture before it had even been drawn. It was like he was half of Dream, and then that half disappeared. And then Dream didn’t know what to do.

It had only been five days but it felt like years. Dream was a mess. He pushed through but everyone could tell something was off. Even the fans. Bad tried to talk to him about it, but Dream brushed it off. Probably because if Bad started, well, being Bad, Dream wouldn’t be able to push it down anymore. He would collapse.

Call him dramatic, after all, it was only a week- but when you’re so entwined with someone it stings when they’re pulled away.

Finally. Finally, on day 7 Dream saw his phone light up with a new notification.

From George’s mom.

Dream had quickly launched himself across the table, grabbing it. His fingers trembled as he desperately tried to unlock it. Finally succeeding, he read what she sent and had felt his heart sink.

He couldn’t read the whole thing. After the first two sentences, all of the words spun around him.

_Hasn’t been seen since-_

_Talking about ending the game-_

_Weapons were involved-_

_Blood was found-_

Dream felt his breath quicken, a tight pressure forming behind his eyes as he reread. Over and over again, his eyes singling out the phrases that made his heart jump the most. But the last one. The last one had his heart shattering, his world completely crumbling.

Presumed dead.

His vision grew blurry and the air around him thickened. His phone was buzzing now. Dully, he answered whoever was calling him.

Sapnap was frantic, asking Dream all sorts of things.

_“Did you see-”_

_“What do you think-”_

_“Could it have been a-”_

_“Did he owe-”_

_“Did he say anything?”_

His words were rapid-fire, bullets tearing his chest to shreds. Sapnap kept going, trembling disbelief hanging in his words. Hours. It felt like hours as Dream listened to Sap try and get a grip as he himself tried to shove his own emotions down. He was doing great until Sapnap suddenly went silent.

There was a sharp intake of air on the other end, and in a much softer voice Sap delivered the finale fracture.

_“How are we going to tell people?”_

There was a stretch of nothing. And then Dream was vomiting all over his kitchen tiles as violent sobs wracked his body. Distantly he could hear Sapnap calling his name, asking over and over again if he needed to call someone.

Dream let out a laugh, his gagging giving way to a stream of tears.

_“Sapnap, I’m sorry man, I- I need to- I need to take a walk.”_

With that, he ended the call.

He couldn’t feel his fingers now. The needles of cold pierce through his jeans, taking anchor in his skin but his mind was adrift. Nothing seemed to take full form in his mind, dark water churning, no shore in sight. Memories floated in and out of his mind’s eye- all of them involving George.

For the first time, he regrets never showing George his face.

No violent emotions flit through him at this, instead something heavy settles in the pit of his stomach. All the times he’s gotten to see George smile, frown, chew his lip in frustration, or just space off, Dream had had the privilege to watch. It had been a game to him, something to tease him about. But now he regrets it.

Now he wishes more than anything he had let himself be known by him.

His eyes were dry now, ducts aching, lids refusing to fall as he stared into the black abyss beyond the street lamp. The phone by his side had fallen silent. The facts were slowly starting to settle in. George had been taken. By who- no one had any clue. They knew whoever it was had been violent, the amount of blood they had found in the flat had gotten that across easily enough.

The chances of him still being alive were slim. Extremely slim.

Dream almost wishes they had found a body. Just so the creeping anxiety would stop. Just so he could stop asking himself if George was still out there. If he was ok. If he was hurting like Dream was now. Or if someone else was hurting him.

Presumed dead.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting out on the playground, but he decided that it was time to start walking back once cars started to pull out of their driveways.

Wednesday Midday: 24th December: 2020

Hot water flowed over Dream’s back. He watches as water pools around his feet, and as it forms a little river that slips into the drain. His hands are pruny and he has no idea how long he’s been sitting under the spray. He knows he’s late to the family Christmas party. He’s unsure by how much, but he periodically hears the buzz of his phone cut through the static so it’s safe to assume he’s late by a lot.

In all honesty, he would be fine without going. Perfectly content to stay on the shower floor forever, letting the rough stream of burning liquid punch a hole through his torso. But he knows he’d regret it, or would he- he doesn’t know. It would hurt his mom, and his sisters. He doesn’t want to do that.

He rolls his head up to the ceiling, eyes focusing on the light filtering through the steam. A sigh slips past his chapped lips, and his eyes close as he grabs the soap ledge. Slowly he pulls himself up and reaches over to turn off the water. The silence that follows hits him like a truck. There’s no dripping water where there should be, no ringing in his ears. Nothing. It probes at the hole in his chest, stinging the flesh behind his ribs. For a moment he stands there, dripping wet, letting the cold of the bathroom get under his skin. He lets it settle in, just for a moment.

The moment doesn’t last, his phone vibrates again on the counter top. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the notification to end. It doesn’t. Someone is calling him.

He steps out, quickly toweling off his hands and hair, not bothering with the rest himself. He taps the screen and puts it up to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice sounds rough, and gravely, and kind of wrong.

“Hey Clay,” His older sister’s voice floats through the receiver, soft and bright, like all always “just was wondering if you’re still going to make it.”

“Yeah. Yeah! I said I’d make it right? I just had some work to finish up,” the lie was obvious, they both know Dream hasn’t done shit since that night “I’ll be heading out in like, five minutes.”

There was a light hum on the other side. Then quietly she speaks again, “You know, none of us would be mad if you didn’t come. We just- We know it’s difficult right now. We just don’t want you to be alone.”

Dream closed his eyes, forcing his lungs to inflate. “I want to come.” He sighs the words out, trying to make them sound as firm as possible. In part it’s a lie. What he really wants to do is step back under the spray of the shower and erode away under the stream, or sink into his mattress and sleep forever. But he wants to see his mom. He wants to see his sisters, his brother. He wants to let them know that he’s ok- even though he’s not. He doesn’t want them to worry.

So as in much heist he can make he dries off, walking to his closet and pulling on jeans and a sweater. He grabs what he needs, does a quick once over of everything, then walks out the door.

——

His childhood home isn’t huge, but it isn’t exactly small either. Between the two stories, it had five rooms, two and a half baths, a game room, and one recently remodeled open concept styled kitchen. In all, it was a nice home, everything flowed together dynamically in a way that always felt welcoming and warm.

He can remember spring times past when the world had just started to warm, his Mom would open every window in the house that could open, and let the dewy spring air fill the house. He can remember sitting in the game room, sitting on a bean bag, intensely staring at the tv, controller in hand as his fingers fly over the buttons. He can remember laying in his room, curtains drawn as music filled the dark room, the only comfort being the soft comforter around him. He can remember sitting on the couch, home alone and late at night, lips locked with the girl sitting in his lap as a movie played on in the background.

The house is a wearhouse of Dream. Not just of memories. But of thoughts and feelings and smells and textures, all of which he finds special. Some are good, some are bad, but they all mean something. All of them are a part of him.

Stepping into the crowded home he feels distant. People greet him and he smiles at them. Shakes hands, and gives hugs. He makes chit chat and laughs like he always does.

They know it’s act.

No one mentions his work. It’s like someone shattered glass on the floor and his family are dancers, hopping and skipping joyfully over the shards. It’s the one thing that brings a small, yet genuine, smile to his face. They’re always so careful, so caring.

As the night wears on, he finds it hard to keep up. He’s getting tired of talking and smiling and laughing. So he wanders away from the crowd, feet climbing the stairs, fingers dusting the banister. Once he gets to the top, he kicks his shoes off out of pure habit, no shoes on the carpet, and he lets his gaze drift around.

Not much has changed since he moved out. The walls are the same, as well is the carpet. Some of the furniture looks new, but he can’t bring himself to dredge up whether or not it was like that before he left.

Slowly, he makes his way from room to room, peaking slightly into all of his siblings rooms.

His older sister’s nearly empty, a treadmill sits in the corner, a few storage tubs line the walls. His younger sister’s looks just as pink and messy as always, and his little brother’s is weirdly neat, bed made and everything stored in a specific place. Each arrangement so specific to his siblings' personalities.

Another small smile pulls at his cheeks.

He lets it rise on his face.

He reaches the end of the hall, the last door looming in front of him. It’s like the other doors. White painted wood, a few scratches from years of use, old, random strips of tape stuck to its surface. The metal handle is cold to his touch as he pushes it down, and allows it to swing open.

Static air hits him at once. It makes him want to go back, to shut the door and just leave. He doesn’t. Instead, he stands still as the hinges creak and stretch, widening the entry. Slowly it gets to a point where he can survey what was once his.

His old room is a lot cleaner than it was than it was when he had left. The bed was made, his desk clear. Shallow light seeps in through the windows, the metal blinds drawn tightly shut. He thinks it’s odd the sun hasn’t fully set. It feels much later that it apparently is. Dust particles float through the air and Dream watches them, mind drifting along with them. The pathway of his gaze delivers his focus to the desk nearly right in front of him. It’s smooth surface is covered in a thin, but noticeable layer of non-floating, stationary dust. It looks way less yellowy without the overhead lights on, and personally Dream had always prefered the way it looked in natural light. It was an ugly desk, a product of early 2002s interior design. Vanilla wood that aged horribly to a rather distasteful not-quite-gold color with stumpy legs and a thin upper surface. He hated it, but when it came down to it, he had asked his mother, rather more, begged her, not to give it away when he moved. So many memories were grooved in with the grain of the wood. It’s where it all started, it was there when he met all those people who had gotten him to the point he was now.

It’s where 15 year old Dream met George.

He hadn’t known what he was expecting when George had joined the discord call that day. What he wasn’t expecting was the light and smooth, almost honey like voice that had said ‘Hello!’. Dream can remember that, for a split second, he thought he had called the wrong person. The name ‘George’ simply did not fit the voice that was greeting him. _“Hi!”_ He had said, something like nervousness had fluttered in his chest _“George, right?”_. And in the same clear, accented voice George answered _“The one and only.”_

They’d taken to each other quickly, like a flame to a forest. Dream quickly realized that there was something about George that made him want to be better, something that made Dream push himself. George was also something that became steady in Dream’s ever shifting life, always down to talk, or play bed wars with him. No matter what was happening in Dream’s life he had always, somehow, managed to be there. He wasn’t good with words, but George listened in earnest, taking in whatever Dream had to say no matter the subject. He never looked bored, the opposite rather. George always looked happy to talk to him, even though there was no face to accompany his words. It always made Dream wonder how George did it. He knew if it was him, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, be so engaged with a faceless voice for five hours, much less five years. That was another thing he admired about George- his trust. There were plenty of opportunities for George to just stop talking to him, for him to suspect Dream wasn’t who he said he was. But George had stayed. Through thick and thin.

His hand swept along the desk’s surface, hand coming away steeped in dust. He stared at it. So many memories. Normally he would’ve felt the small sting of tears climbing at the corner of his eyes, but all he felt was that same, hollow feeling he had felt since the park. There was a name for it Dream didn’t want to use. If he gave it a name, the feeling would win, and Dream would be stuck with it forever. He slid his two fore fingers against his thumb, feeling the fine dust shake loose, watching as it slowly drifted to the ground. He needed to wash his hands.

Looking up he noticed it was almost completely dark now.

Friday Night : 27th December 2020

Christmas came and went. He had stayed with his parents the two previous nights with a big, fake, forced smile.

It wasn’t that being with his family didn’t make him happy, he loved his family more than almost anything. He was just tired. When his presence wasn’t required, he was holed up in his old room, back flat against his bed, eyes trained on the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on his ceiling. It wasn’t that his family didn’t make him happy, it’s just that nothing could make him feel anymore. He was in his room now, mind numb, and picking out plastic constellations, when his Mom’s voice rang through the house. Dinner time.

Raising himself up his head felt light, he had probably been laying down too long. He swung his legs over the bedside and shuffled out of the room.

Dinner was spread out in porcelain serving dishes, the fine silverware set out besides the plates. His Mom had pulled out the fine crystal. Looking around he notices he’s the first one in the dinning room. Not for long though, a moment later his Mother comes striding in with a boat of steaming gravy. She smiles at him, “Hi Clay.”

“Hello Mom.” He gives a smile back and takes a seat, his Mom settling in next to him shortly after.  
“You look a little more awake today,” she says as she starts to load his plate with food “been getting enough sleep?”

Dream resists the urge to touch his face. Does he look more awake? He guesses he feels more rested since he’s been here. It’s a little strange though since it doesn’t feel like he's gotten anymore sleep. Maybe being around his family has made a difference.

He shrugs. “I guess so, it’s either that or your amazing cooking.” He compliments, offering her a wry smile. She takes it in stride, her own smile widening.

“You flatter me too much.”

After that there’s a short silence, only made louder by the rest of the family missing from the dining room. His mom shifts in her seat looking uncomfortable with anticipation and the weighted lack of speech. She mumbles something.

With a sigh she looks to Dream, “I’ll be right back.” Dream gives her a nod and he watches as she moves to the living room.

Foot steps can be heard ascending the stairs, aggravated voices radiate from the game room, and from what Dream can tell a pretty intense back and forth that ends with more of an annoyed exasperation. One pair of steps makes their way down again and Mom rounds the corner alone, a slight annoyance painted on her kind face.

“They’re watching the game, they said they would eat later.” Her explanation makes sense, sports have always been an important part of the household.

“I guess we just have some one on one time huh.” He offers another smile and she takes it.

“I guess so.” Her smile matches his. They fall back into silence as his mom loads his plate. It warms his heart slightly to see that she chooses all of his favorite foods. Green bean casserole, roasted ham, that weird cranberry and marshmallow stuff. The servings are large and Dream feels bad, he lacks an appetite, but he’ll eat it all if he knows it’ll keep his mom smiling. She hands him the plate and he thanks her. The bites he takes are small, more to get the taste of the meal instead of trying to fill his empty stomach.

Of course his mom notices it.

“Is the food ok?” She asks. There’s a second meaning in her question, one delicately masked in the illusion of insecurity. Dream knows what she’s trying to ask. He doesn’t want to answer. Unfortunately, he doesn’t think he can avoid it.

“Yeah it’s great Mom.” He smiles at her again. She’s not fooled.

“You’re not eating too much of it.”

“I’m trying to savor it.”

“Actually I noticed you’ve haven’t been eating much in general,”

“Mom-”

“And I know that you probably don’t want to talk about it,”

“Mom.”

“But Clay we’re all really worried about you and-”

“MOM.”

He hates the way his voice comes out. It’s red with anger and sharp, and it makes his mom look like he just slapped her across the face. Regret flutters through him at the site. He sighs.

“I’m fine.”

She gives him a hard state, pupils burning into him. It's obvious he knows. Obvious he's not fine. Not one bit. But he doesn't, can't, talk about it. About him. Not right now. Because right now he's a broken vase and if anymore more water is poured in he’ll completely shatter, and everything that's inside will come pouring out. He’ll make a mess, be a mess- he can't be that. He sighs, head coming to rest in his hands, fingers curling in his hair.

“Can we just have a good time together,” he asks, not looking at his mom, “I don’t want to think…” about him, about if he’s ok, about how I can’t do anything. “About work.” He flinches. It's a gross reduction of everything George was and he knows that.

A hand lands softly on his back, slowly rubbing circles. She’s trying her best to calm him. He prays she doesn’t push, prays that she won’t say anything else about him.

His prayers go unanswered.

“I know you’re not fine honey,” She sounds choked “It’s been almost two weeks and you haven’t talked to anyone about him.”

Dream flinches.

“You’ve lost so much weight, Clay, and you look sick.”

He doesn’t say anything, fingers tightening he grips his scalp harder. Residual anger swirls the cold air in his stomach, making it boil. He knows. He knows he looks sick. That the color in his face is gone and ever thinking that he was getting better was just wishful thinking.

Kicking his chair back, he stands up. His mother’s hand falls limply off him. Her eyes are wet and Dream doesn't want to see it, can't see it. He doesn't want to-

His thoughts don't finish. “I think I better get home.”

“Clay.”

More red.

“Patches hasn't been fed today.” He snaps.

A slow tear runs down his mother's cheek, a slight twinge of guilt pricks Dream's chest. He forces himself to soften. She's only trying to help. The red fades out. Dull grey and pain replaces it. An overwhelming feeling makes its way down his throat. It feels like suffocating.

“I’ll take dinner to go though.”

They both know he won't eat it.

\----------------

He lets his keys clatter on the clean white marble island.

He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, instead letting the silky darkness wrap around him. It cools the feverish hole inside him. Familiar cold settles as he moves through the room. Out of the dark he hears the clink of porcelain on tile. He hadn't been lying when he said Patches hadn't eaten.

The pantry lets out a grown as he opens it and a gentle force slides against Dreams leg. “Hey girl,” Dream says to her, reaching down to stroke the cat behind her ears “bet you're hungry.” She bumps her head against his hand in response. He sits and pets her for a while before opening a can of wet food and leaving her to eat in peace.

He makes his way to the living room, collapsing on the couch with a sigh. Tiredness takes over and he feels himself go slack. His mind starts to wander again, going off in all directions.

Sleep takes him fast and silently into a dreamless slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This has been sitting in my docs for about 2 months and Heat Waves inspired me to post. This Chapter isn't too eventful but I hope you'll will stick around. This chapter is a lot short than how long the others are going to be. Uh I'm in college so this will probably be a slow to update fic. Any way- Please comment! Leave criticism! It would be much appreciated. Inspired by Lilies by Roland Faunte.


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